


celebrity crush

by almostafantasia



Series: Clexa Week 2018 [6]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Celebrities, Clexa Week 2018, Clexaweek2018, Day 6, F/F, Famous, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-26 02:56:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13848609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostafantasia/pseuds/almostafantasia
Summary: Everybody has that one celebrity they would go ride or die for. For Lexa, that person is famous lingerie model, LGBT activist, and all round feminist icon, Clarke Griffin.Lexa fantasizes about meeting her idol for way too long until one night, after a few too many drinks, she ends up commenting on Clarke’s latest Instagram photo with a corny chat up line. She wakes up the following morning full of regret, but also surprised to find a message in her inbox from Clarke asking to go for a drink. Lexa is convinced the whole thing is a prank until Clarke actually walks into the bar, and she can’t believe her luck when Clarke invites Lexa back to her hotel room and every fantasy that Lexa has ever had about her celebrity crush starts to come true.





	celebrity crush

Lexa is so gay.

As if there has ever been any doubt about that.

The photo on the screen of her phone is just further unnecessary proof of that fact. Lexa tries telling herself that she’s just appreciative of an expensive matching lingerie set but the truth is that she’s halfway in love with the gorgeous model and the voluptuous curves that the lace frames.

Besides, Lexa might as well appreciate the latest photograph that underwear model Clarke Griffin has posted to her Instagram account – it’s been shared to be looked at, though perhaps not with the kind of meticulous attention that Lexa uses to admire every freckle.

There’s no question about it, Clarke Griffin is gorgeous. Anybody with a working pair of eyes can see that. That she was placed upon this earth specifically to model underwear, Lexa has no doubt. But sometimes she wonders whether Clarke’s existence has a secondary purpose – to torture Lexa with those pretty blue eyes and the curve of her smiling lips and each flash of delicious skin.

“You are _so_ gay.”

Anya’s comment, while undeniably true, is the unwelcome gravity that sends Lexa’s thoughts plummeting back to reality.

“She’s so pretty,” whines Lexa, staring mournfully at the picture for a final few seconds, before she continues scrolling down her Instagram feed.

“Yeah, because you were definitely admiring her _face_ ,” Anya comment drily, giving Lexa a knowing stare. She nudges Lexa with her elbow, then gestures at the drinking game that Lexa has been ignoring in favour of drooling over an unattainable model. “Come on, it’s your turn.”

Lexa reaches into the centre of the circle and flips over a playing card, before pointing across at Echo and gesturing for her to take a drink.

“Trust you to fall for a girl who’s famous,” says Anya, when the game has moved onto Lexa’s other side.

“I haven’t fallen for her,” Lexa pouts. “I’m just appreciative of her work.”

“You get a notification whenever she posts a new photo,” Anya reminds Lexa. “I don’t even do that for people that I’m dating. You’ve got it bad.”

Lexa scrolls back up to look at Clarke’s picture once more, and her heart twists painfully in her chest at the smouldering gaze that Clarke gives the camera. Finally deciding to stop torturing herself with daydreams about what will never be, Lexa locks her phone and slides it into her pocket, then gestures to the half-empty bottle of vodka on the floor between herself and Anya.

“I need a stronger drink.”

* * *

Lexa has a nine o’clock class in the morning, yet she still allows Anya to ply her with generous amounts of vodka, still allows herself to be drawn in by the increasingly raucous drinking games, still allows herself to be dragged out into town to continue their night at a club when she promised herself earlier that she would only have two drinks and then be in bed by eleven.

It’s a dangerous game to play, but once Lexa becomes aware that she is way drunker than she planned to be, she decides to embrace it and orders the next round of shots – tequila this time – much to the delight of her friends.

Her mind is fuzzy as she stumbles away from the dance floor and down a dark corridor with unpleasantly sticky floors towards the women’s bathroom. There’s a queue lining up outside, a string of drunk girls complimenting each other’s dresses and chatting loudly over the thump of music as they wait for one of the stalls to free up and Lexa joins the back of it, fishing her phone out of the pocket of her pants to pass the time.

When she unlocks the screen, it’s still open on the Instagram post from earlier, and Lexa’s eyes pop out of her head once more as they are greeted by the sight of Clarke Griffin’s lace-clad body. The sight knocks the air out of Lexa’s lungs and she feels giddy. (It might be the alcohol, but she’s pretty sure that this photo really _isn’t_ helping the matter.) Lexa feels as though she could stare at this photo all week, that Clarke’s sultry blue eyes and the expanse of creamy skin on display could keep Lexa sustained better than the food and oxygen that science says her body needs to survive.

Anya’s words from earlier ring in Lexa’s mind. _Trust you to fall for a girl who’s famous._ And despite her earlier denial, Lexa knows now that it’s true. She’s never been this addicted to a girl in real life, never felt like her life would be incomplete without somebody. And it’s fucking ridiculous because Clarke Griffin is a famous model, and Lexa is just an insignificant speck in Clarke’s extensive follower list. Lexa might dream of an alternate universe in which a chance encounter with the model leads to a fulfilling relationship and a fairytale happy ending, but the reality means that this will never actually happen.

Which is why what Lexa does next is so easy.

It’s almost certainly the alcohol that pushes Lexa to start typing out a comment on Clarke’s photo, fuelling the resentful part of Lexa’s mind that is reminding her that Clarke is not only incontestably gorgeous, but that as a famous model she would never even glance twice at somebody like Lexa, pushing her thumbs to tap away at the keyboard on the screen of her phone before her brain has the chance to catch up.

_Nice underwear, bet it would look better on my bedroom floor…_

The line moves forward just as Lexa taps send, and she slips her phone back into her pocket and forgets about the comment entirely.

* * *

When Lexa is finished in the bathroom, she returns to the dancefloor with a clear conscience and a renewed enthusiasm for having a good time. She dances with Anya, shimmying her hips and waving her arms around above her head in ways that would bring her great shame if she weren’t impaired by the buzz of too many units of alcohol. As it is, Lexa dances like she doesn’t give a fuck – and she _doesn’t_.

That is, until her phone buzzes in her pocket, and Lexa takes it out while continuing a half-dance kind of thing, startling herself with the bright glare of the screen as she unlocks it in the darkened nightclub. She turns down the brightness, then looks for the cause of the vibration – an Instagram notification telling her that somebody has sent her a private message – and reads the words on the screen.

_Nice face, bet it would look better between my legs…_

Lexa reads the sender’s name once, twice, three times before it registers that it reads Clarke Griffin – her _celebrity crush_ Clarke Griffin – and it is only after that the contents of the message itself hits her.

And she nearly drops her phone.

No way.

No fucking _way_.

Lexa reads it all again, reads her own shame-inducing comment that she barely remembers typing earlier in the night and then reads Clarke’s private response. And it just doesn’t make any sense. Clarke is making fun of her, she _has_ to be. Lexa has made an unwanted and inappropriate sexual comment on a stranger’s photo and Clarke is calling her out for it.

Lexa has to believe that’s true because the alternative is that Clarke’s message is genuine, and that is far too much for Lexa’s alcohol-fogged brain to handle.

There is _no way_ that Clarke would be interested in somebody like Lexa.

Lexa is a firm believer that the multiverse theory is entirely plausible, but she cannot comprehend that there could be a single universe in which Lexa gets hit on by somebody as completely out of her league as Clarke Griffin.

Especially not in _this_ universe.

Especially not after the awful comment that she sent.

Lexa wishes that she could rewind time. It’s stupid, to be completely honest, because she’s spent months dreaming up impossible scenarios in which Clarke notices Lexa amongst the thousands of fans, but now that the day has finally arrived, she doesn’t think she’s ever been this mortified in her life.

Lexa needs to be sober. She also needs to rectify this situation as soon as possible, and because sobriety seems to be several hours and a few pints of cold water away, Lexa settles for working on the latter.

_I’m so sorry! I’ve been drinking and I don’t know what I was thinking when I wrote that! I promise I’m not a creep!_

It’s word vomit in written form, but Lexa isn’t capable of typing out anything more articulate in her current state and she’s at least grateful that the message contains no spelling errors. She hits send and pushes the phone back into her pocket, as if putting the whole thing out of sight will wipe it from her mind too.

If only the world worked in that way.

“What’s wrong?” Anya bellows into Lexa’s ear from just a few inches away, and despite the proximity, her words are still almost drowned out by the thump of the bass.

Lexa tries to act normal, realising quickly that ‘normal’ behaviour is a lot harder to pull off when she’s thinking about it, and just shrugs, before answering, “Just not feeling it anymore. I’ve drunk too much.”

“We can go if you like,” replies Anya. “I’m pretty much done for the night too.”

Lexa’s phone goes off again in her pocket, and she tries not to be too eager in taking it out, just in case Anya notices her stranger behaviour and probes further.

_Why don’t you enjoy the rest of your night and we’ll see if you’re still interested tomorrow when you’re sober?_

Lexa frowns down at the screen, because the words don’t entirely make sense and she doesn’t know if that’s her fault or Clarke’s or the alcohol’s or some fiendish combination of all three.

_Interested in what?_

Lexa presses send and Clarke’s next message comes back almost immediately, and Lexa can’t help but picture Clarke somewhere with her phone in her hand, waiting for Lexa’s message so that she can reply straight away. (Clarke is scantily clad in this scenario, and draped across a bed, because apparently Lexa’s mind enjoys straying to inappropriate places after too many shots, and oh _boy_ if her mouth wasn’t dry before then it certainly is now.)

_In seeing my underwear on your bedroom floor_

Lexa locks the screen of her phone in panic, lest anybody around her happens to see the conversation with Clarke, and puts it away as she leans towards Anya and says, “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”

* * *

When Lexa wakes up, the only thing to hit her before the hangover is the shame.

Lexa remembers _everything_. Well, there are clear gaps in her memory – she doesn’t remember the journey to the nightclub, nor getting food on the way back home even though there is an open pizza box with two and a half uneaten slices lying in plain sight on her bedroom floor, nor the exact set of circumstances that led to Lexa going out on a night that she’d promised herself she would stay in. But she remembers everything about Clarke Griffin, about the obscene comment she posted on Clarke’s photo, about the inexplicably propositional message that she received in response.

And she is _mortified_.

Lexa unlocks her phone with the greatest reluctance, because she’s hoping that there’s a tiny chance she drunk so much last night that the entire thing was merely a dreamed up product of her own alcohol-addled mind but nope, the messages from Clarke are most definitely glaring up at her, which means that she did the unspeakable and pretty much sexually-assaulted a stranger via an Instagram comment.

The third thing that hits Lexa, once she’s confirmed that last night’s events really did happen, is the realisation that she should have been in class twenty minutes ago.

Lexa drags herself out of bed, grateful that she at least had enough sense to change into pyjamas when she got home in the early hours of the morning, rather than passing out fully nude, as she has done before, and takes her phone with her out of her bedroom and into the kitchen where Anya sits at the table, chewing on a slice of toast.

“Anya, we have a big problem,” Lexa announces.

Anya glances up from her plate, an expression of mild surprise on her face, before she swallows her mouthful of food and replies, “For the last time, Lexa, skipping class because you’re hungover is not the end of the world.”

Lexa feels a pang of sadness for the loss of her unblemished attendance record this year, but then shakes herself out of it when she remembers that there are far worse things that she’s done in the last twenty four hours than forgetting to set an alarm.

“No, something happened last night,” explains Lexa. When panic flashes across Anya’s face, Lexa holds out her phone, which is open on the comment she made on Clarke’s photo last night, and quickly says, “No, nothing like that. Look at this.”

Anya squints at the screen, mouthing the words of Lexa’s comment silently as she reads it, before her mouth drops open and she stares up at Lexa with shock in her eyes.

“Jesus Christ, Lexa. That’s not like you at all.”

“I know!” whines Lexa, taking back her phone so that she can open up the message conversation that follows on from her comment. “I’m mortified.”

“I mean,” says Anya, taking another bite from her toast and continuing in a muffled voice, “that photo has hundreds of comments. I’m sure she hasn’t seen it.”

“Hold on,” Lexa tells Anya. “I’m not finished.”

Lexa shows Anya her phone once more, this time open on the surreal conversation with Clarke, the one that Lexa wouldn’t believe actually happened if she didn’t have the hard physical evidence of it in front of her.

Anya’s reaction is predictably astounded.

“What the actual fuck?”

“So you see it too?” Lexa asks, just to confirm, as Anya takes the phone from Lexa to look at the conversation in more detail. “I haven’t just fantasised the entire thing?”

Anya frowns down at the screen with an expression of disbelief that matches how Lexa feels, and then answers, “It would appear not.”

The phone in Anya’s hand vibrates with a new message, and Lexa lunges forward to snatch it from her best friend, only for Anya to use her height advantage against Lexa to keep the phone to herself.

“It’s from her!” Anya announces gleefully, before she reads out, “’ _Morning cutie!’ –_ oh my god, I’m going to be sick already – ‘ _Hope you aren’t too hungover. The offer still stands. I’m in DC for a shoot next week if you’d like to go for a drink?_ ’ Holy shit, Lexa. She’s serious.”

Lexa finally triumphs in taking back her phone, reading over Clarke’s newest message to find that Anya didn’t make a word of it up. Clarke Griffin, a famous model so gorgeous that Lexa is certain she could date _anybody_ she wanted to, has actually asked Lexa out.

“It’s a joke,” Lexa says aloud, for her own benefit more than for Anya’s. “It has to be. Retaliation for the gross comment that I left her. She has to be making fun of me, trying to see if she can trick me into saying yes before she jumps out and tells me that of course somebody like her would never be interested in somebody like me.”

“Okay Lexa, this may be news to you – and don’t you dare repeat this conversation to anybody because you know I hate it when people think I can be sincere – but you’re actually kind of hot.” When Lexa opens her mouth to protest, Anya shuts her up with a dismissive wave of her hand and continues, “And I know that girls could be flinging their panties at you and you’d still come up with a completely illogical explanation for why they might still not be interested in you, but it’s not completely unreasonable that Clarke Griffin has checked out your Instagram account, decided that you’re a hot piece of ass, and wants to screw you.”

Lexa chews on her lower lip, because that’s an unlikely story, even though the messages that stare up at her from the screen of her phone seem to support a similar idea.

“Look,” says Anya, reaching out to rest one hand on Lexa’s arm, “if you don’t want to then you don’t have to. But just remember that most people would give anything to be asked out by their celebrity crush.”

It hits Lexa then. This is her _celebrity crush_ , the woman that only ever appears in Lexa’s fantasies. An opportunity like this would never present itself again.

“Okay,” Lexa finally concedes. “But if I turn up to meet her and find that she’s there with a half dozen police officers waiting to arrest me for sexually harassing her online, then _you_ are paying my legal fees.”

* * *

Lexa is terrified. She’s been a jittery ball of nerves all afternoon, and now that the minutes until she meets Clarke are down to the single figures, the pounding of Lexa’s heart is deafening.

“Lexa?”

Lexa is so nervous that she startles when she hears a voice saying her name, and she jumps to her feet when she sees Clarke standing in front of her.

Clarke is … she’s shorter than Lexa imagined her to be. She’s only fractionally shorter than Lexa, but it still surprises Lexa that this figure she’s built up in her head to be such a monumental idol in her life doesn’t actually tower over her in reality.

Clarke seems completely normal too, as if she’s just a regular person, rather than a famous model with hundreds of thousands of online followers. And yeah, of course Lexa knew that Clarke wasn’t going to show up in just a fancy set of lingerie, or wearing a glamorous ballgown, or anything like that, but there’s something about seeing Clarke wearing a pair of turned up jeans with rips in both knees, a leather jacket, and a plaid scarf bundled around her neck, that just grounds the entire situation.

She’s still _gorgeous_ though. Lexa thinks that Clarke could have turned up in a pair of sweatpants and with unwashed hair and Lexa would still momentarily forget how to breathe in her presence. Clarke’s eyes are bluer in real life, and her smile even prettier, and if Lexa wasn’t at least fifty percent in love with the model before this moment, then she definitely is now.

“Clarke?” Lexa chokes past the dryness in her throat to finally stop gaping like an idiot and say something. “Hi! Um, can I get you a drink?”

“Sure!” answers Clarke, unravelling her scarf from around her neck and taking off her jacket, folding both over one arm as Lexa leans on the bar and flags down a bartender. “I’ll have a white wine, please.”

“A white wine and a vodka lime soda, please,” Lexa tells the server behind the bar, reaching into her purse for some change to pay for the drinks.

“You look great, by the way,” says Clarke, nudging herself into Lexa’s side as she leans on the bar beside Lexa.

“So do you,” says Lexa. “I mean, _wow_.”

Lexa turns to look at Clarke with the intention of physically acknowledging how good Clarke looks, but finds blue eyes much closer than she expects. She falters, intimidated by Clarke’s proximity, and has to look away for her own sanity.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Clarke dismisses her comment with a wave of the hand, as if she hasn’t just dazzled Lexa with a simple gaze. “I came straight from a shoot so I didn’t even have time to properly get ready.”

The bartender places their drinks on the bar and Lexa takes the opportunity to distract herself from the heat rising to her cheeks in Clarke’s presence by reaching for her purse and counting out the correct change to pay for their drinks. Passing the glass of wine over to Clarke, Lexa picks up her own drink and leads the way over to a small table for two not far from the bar.

“I want to apologise for the comment that I left on your picture,” Lexa says, almost as soon as they have each taken a seat, desperate to get her apology in early so that she has a chance to redeem herself and prove to Clarke that she can be so much more than just a creep from the internet. “I was drunk, and I know that doesn’t excuse anything…”

“Don’t worry about it,” says Clarke, taking a sip from her wine and then placing the glass on the table. “It’s not the first time I’ve seen a comment like that. Admittedly, they’re usually from gross teenage boys or pervy old men…”

“I’m _incredibly_ sorry,” Lexa repeats, mortified at being placed in such a category.

“Look, I can tell that it’s out of character for you,” Clarke reassures her. A sly smile quirks her lips, and she adds in a lower voice, “Besides, I like a girl who isn’t afraid to say what she wants.”

Lexa’s mouth goes incredibly dry from the combination of Clarke’s words and the look that Clarke gives her in that moment, like she wants to launch herself across the table and do unspeakable things to Lexa regardless of the bar’s other patrons, and Lexa has to reach for her drink to cool herself down.

“Do you do this often?” Lexa dares to ask, almost scared to hear of all the other people that Clarke must have invited out for drinks, just like this.

“Do what?” frowns Clarke.

“Go out for drinks with fans.”

Clarke shakes her head and answers, “Actually, this is the first time.”

Lexa almost chokes on her drink. She had been expecting Clarke to say that she does this all the time - she _must_ do this all the time if she’s doing it with Lexa - but the reality is a complete surprise.

“Then … why _me_?”

It doesn’t make sense. Clarke has over two hundred thousand followers on Instagram, and out of them all, she has chosen _Lexa_.

“I don’t know,” Clarke shrugs. “Something about you intrigued me. When I saw your comment, I was curious because it came from a woman. And then I looked at your photos and I liked what I saw.”

Lexa feels her cheeks flush when Clarke confessed to browsing Lexa’s own Instagram account. Lexa uses it to post pictures of sunsets and hand-picked flowers and the cat that followed her home from the library last week. Nothing that would make a lingerie model swoon.

And yet Clarke is still here, sitting in front of Lexa with a drink in her hand that Lexa bought for her.

“What about now?” Lexa dares to ask. “Do you still like what you see?”

Clarke’s gaze slowly lowers, starting at Lexa’s eyes and then dropping to her lips, where she lingers before her stare slides down the rest of Lexa’s body, as if she is checking her out through the table that sits between them. When Clarke’s eyes flicker upwards once more to meet Lexa’s, she doesn’t answer Lexa’s question verbally. Instead, the way she raises her eyebrows at Lexa, along with the renewed hunger in her eyes, is more than enough of an indication of her thoughts.

“So,” Clarke eventually drawls, “it took a great deal of alcohol for you to post that comment, right?” When Lexa nods an affirmative, Clarke continues, “And how many drinks before you’ll let me take you back to my hotel?”

Lexa glances across at her drink, already half empty from the way that she has been sipping at it regularly as a distraction from the mounting arousal that has her clenching her thighs together. Her decision is instant, and she reaches for the glass, knocking back her head to pour the remainder down her throat.

Wincing at the taste of the vodka, slightly stronger at the bottom of the glass than it had been at the top, Lexa puts the glass down with a thud and replies, “One is more than enough.”

Clarke’s eyes light up in delight and she finishes her own drink in one gulp, before collecting her purse and jacket as she pushes back her chair.

“Then let’s get out of here.”

* * *

If somebody were to ask Lexa at a later date to recount the journey back to Clarke’s hotel, she would only be able to do it in the vaguest terms. It’s all a blur of Clarke’s hand in hers, and Clarke’s hand on her waist, and Clarke’s hands drifting lower so that it’s not quite grazing the curve of Lexa’s denim-clad butt when they have the privacy of the elevator up to Clarke’s room.

They talk about … about _something_ . They must do, because the journey isn’t an awkward one, not _entirely_ anyway. Lexa thinks that they talk about Clarke’s current shoot, and Lexa’s college classes, and other such idle chitchat that happens entirely on autopilot. None of it really registers in Lexa’s brain, because she’s still completely overwhelmed by the fact that she’s met her celebrity crush, let alone the fact that said celebrity crush has invited Lexa back to her hotel room for what promises to be the most mind-blowing evening of Lexa’s entire life to date.

Lexa is still half-convinced that this whole thing is just a hoax, that Clarke’s hand seeking out whichever part of Lexa’s body it can find to hold onto as they make their way up to Clarke’s room is only there to stop Lexa from running, that they’ll step inside Clarke’s room to find a television crew armed with cameras and a half dozen confetti cannons ready to jump out and tell her that she’s been pranked.

Because there’s _no way_ that Clarke actually wants to have sex with her.

But they make it up to the hotel room, and when Clarke unlocks the door with her key card and ushers Lexa inside, there is nothing waiting for them except a king size bed that is equal parts inviting and intimidating.

“Can I get you another drink?” asks Clarke dropping her purse and jacket onto the floor beside the dresser and opening the door to the mini-fridge in the corner of the room to inspect its contents.

“No,” answers Lexa, deciding that although a little liquid courage would be more than welcome right now, she wants to be sound of mind to experience this for whatever it turns out to be. “I…”

“Oh,” says Clarke, shutting the fridge door again and crossing the room to Lexa, her hands seeking out Lexa’s waist and slowly guiding her back against the wall next to the door. “Is there something else you’d rather be doing?”

“I…” stammers Lexa, her throat almost painfully dry, “I have a couple of ideas.”

“Yeah?”

Lexa hesitates before she acts, searching Clarke’s face for any possible sign that she doesn’t want Lexa to kiss her, but when she finds none, and when Clarke’s hands tighten on her waist in encouragement, Lexa lifts one of her own hands to cup Clarke’s cheek and pulls her in for a hot kiss.

Despite waiting for Lexa to initiate the kiss, Clarke takes control as soon as Lexa’s mouth meets hers. She keeps Lexa anchored against the wall with her hands, while her mouth opens and her tongue swipes against the crease of Lexa’s lips, requesting access that Lexa is only too happy to give. And Lexa is grateful that Clarke is taking the lead. The entire situation still drips with surrealism, and Lexa’s brain can’t keep up with the fast pace of the evening’s developments.

She’s kissing Clarke Griffin. She’s in Clarke’s hotel room, with Clarke’s hands low on her hips, and Clarke’s tongue sweeping into her mouth, and there’s no fucking way that this isn’t just a hyper-realistic dream. Except that Lexa is too aware of each tiny detail for this to be a dream, too aware of the thudding in her ears with each pump of the blood through her veins, too aware of the way that Clarke’s hands burn through the material of her top, too aware of the ache between her legs as she subconsciously pushes her hips forward into Clarke’s as if seeking contact where she so desperately needs it.

It _has_ to be real.

Almost as if she senses that Lexa needs a respite to let her brain catch up with her body, Clarke pulls back from the kiss, far enough for Lexa to see that Clarke’s blue irises have almost shrunk entirely behind the black of her blown pupils, before Clarke’s parted lips descend on Lexa’s neck, tracing dangerous paths over tendons and fluttering pulses.

It’s still very distracting, the way that Clarke’s teeth and tongue work at the skin of Lexa’s neck with no real predictability in their movements, but without the intoxication of Clarke’s lips on her own, Lexa does manage to remember that there are things she planned to say to Clarke before things could get to this stage and with her mouth free to speak, Lexa chooses now to attempt to vocalise them, if only to give her something else to try and focus on instead of succumbing entirely to her desire.

“I just want to say,” Lexa manages to husk out, impressed with her own ability to string words together in the face of Clarke’s valiant efforts at making Lexa lose her mind entirely, “I think you’re … you’re a great rolemodel to young girls, a real feminist icon. The campaigning you do for body positivity … and, _uh_ …” Lexa lets out a little grunt as Clarke’s teeth close around a sensitive spot on her neck, and she has to squeeze her eyes shut to regain the composure needed to finish her sentence, “and the LGBT community. You know, bisexual represen-“

“Lexa,” says Clarke, lifting her mouth from Lexa’s neck and cutting Lexa’s words off with a disarming arch of her eyebrow, “I would love to hear all this later, but right now I can think of much better things that your mouth could be doing.”

Lexa lets out a noise somewhere between a whimper and a groan at the implication of Clarke’s words, but she gets a sudden surge of confidence, sliding her hands under the hem of Clarke’s top and bunching the fabric upwards.

“Can I take this off?”

Clarke smiles as she detaches her own hands from Lexa’s hips, allowing just enough space between their bodies for Lexa to lift Clarke’s top up and over her head.

Lexa doesn’t know how to cope now that Clarke isn’t wearing a shirt. It seems silly, because she’s seen this sight before – Clarke’s tits covered in satin or lace – but before it has always been part of a carefully constructed photoshoot intended to be shared with thousands of other people. This is completely different because it is a private showing. Nobody else but Lexa gets to see this view, and knowing that Clarke wants it to be Lexa and _only_ Lexa seeing her body tonight, is more of a turn on than anything that Lexa has encountered in her life before.

“Shit,” Lexa groans, closing her eyes as arousal throbs in her veins.

“Your turn,” husks Clarke. “I want to see you too.”

Clarke’s hands tug at the hem of Lexa’s top and Lexa raises her arms above her head, allowing Clarke to pull the garment up and off, before she drops it on the floor beside her own.

Lexa almost wants to fold her arms across her chest, feeling incredibly self-conscious about standing there in her bra in front of a woman who gets paid to be photographed wearing the same amount of clothing on her upper half. She decided earlier today to put on her nicest bra, just in case things escalated this far, but Lexa is still just a poor college student, and her nicest bra cost about thirty-five dollars, compared to the obviously far more expensive one that Clarke wears.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” Clarke exhales appreciatively, stroking the fingers of one hand across Lexa’s cheek, then down the column of her neck and over her collar bone before her palm comes to rest over Lexa’s lace-covered breast. “I can’t wait to get you naked.”

Lexa surges forward, pressing her lips against Clarke’s, and the force of the movement causes Clarke to stumble backwards, one hand anchoring itself on Lexa’s waist while the other palms her tit generously.

“Bed,” mumbles Lexa, between hot kisses full of tongues that swipe messily at each other and teeth that nip at swollen lips, as she attempts to steer Clarke backwards towards the bed in the middle of the room, something that only becomes more difficult as Clarke’s thumb and forefinger pinch at an already puckered nipple through the fabric of Lexa’s bra.

They make it to the bed, _somehow_ , by which time Lexa’s jeans are caught around her knees and her fumbling hands have popped open the button on the front of Clarke’s. Lexa kicks her jeans off, tossing them on the floor somewhere behind her as she climbs on top of Clarke, disconnecting their lips long enough to help Clarke tug denim down her own legs.

“Come here, gorgeous,” says Clarke, smirking at Lexa as she lies back on the bed, propped up on her elbows.

Lexa follows Clarke’s request, crawling up Clarke’s body with her legs on either side of Clarke’s hips, her aching centre hovering just inches above Clarke’s lacy panties as she leans down for another kiss. Her long hair tumbles over her face, and Lexa has to take a moment to flick it all over one shoulder, before she connects their lips once more and lets her hand slide up the smooth skin of Clarke’s side until it is resting on the outer curve of Clarke’s lace-clad breast.

“Can I?” Lexa mumbles against Clarke’s lips.

“Take it off,” says Clarke, arching her back off the bed so that Lexa can reach her hand underneath Clarke and unsnap the clasp. “I want your mouth on my tits.”

Lexa is only too happy to oblige, undoing the bra with a shaky hand before throwing it to the floor. She doesn’t allow herself time to think – or time to realise that Clarke is now lying topless before her, because that would almost certainly be too much for Lexa to handle – before she descends on Clarke’s tit, wrapping her lips around a rosy nipple while she sends one of her hands up to give Clarke’s other breast a generous squeeze. Lexa laves her tongue over the nipple as it puckers and Clarke’s hand finds the back of Lexa’s head, tangling into brunette curls to keep Lexa’s mouth against her tit.

Lexa isn’t satisfied with just this though. Now that she has a taste of Clarke’s skin, she wants more, she wants to put her mouth on every tantalising inch of Clarke’s body. She replaces her mouth with her other hand, giving attention to the hardened bud with her fingers, while her tongue traces a path down the valley between Clarke’s breasts and down Clarke’s stomach.

Clarke’s body is even more perfect in person than in her pictures, and Lexa gets more and more proof of that with each second that she spends worshipping it. Clarke’s belly has a slight curve to it, unlike the stereotypical stick-thin model, and Lexa makes sure to lavish the soft skin with attention. She traces mindless patterns over Clarke’s stomach with her lips, stopping every so often to place kisses or draw pictures with her tongue. Lexa seeks out the sensitive spots, revelling each time Clarke lets out a gasp or arches away when Lexa’s lips brush over a ticklish area, making sure to return to these places until Clarke is a writhing mess beneath her.

The hand on the back of Lexa’s head grips tighter, then tries to push her mouth down further. Lexa smirks against the warm skin of Clarke’s stomach, knowing exactly where she wants Lexa’s next destination to be.

But Lexa won’t give in that easily. She lifts her mouth from Clarke’s stomach, and settles on her knees between Clarke’s legs. Clarke lets out a groan of frustration, but it’s one that dies in her throat when she realises that Lexa’s hands have gone to her hips, seeking out the elastic of her underwear to pull the lace down her legs and discard it on the floor.

Lexa has been in this situation with girls before, but she doesn’t think she’s ever wanted it this much. And it’s not just because Clarke is famous, or somebody that Lexa has been harbouring an unrequited crush on for way longer than the other girl has even known of her existence. There’s just something about Clarke, about the way that her kisses taste like perfection, about the way that Lexa seems to know exactly what to do to elicit each gasp of pleasure from Clarke despite being a thrumming ball of nerves, that gives Lexa the inexplicable sensation that her life was always supposed to end up in the moment, whether she likes it or not.

She _definitely_ likes it. There isn’t a question about that. And, judging by the smear of Clarke’s arousal that coats Lexa’s stomach when she settles back between Clarke’s legs, Clarke likes it too.

Clarke Griffin is into her. Which is just way too strange for Lexa to get her mind around. Clarke is so beautiful, both in looks and personality, that she might as well be from another universe, while Lexa is just … well, she’s just _Lexa_. She’s nothing special. Completely ordinary.

“I need your mouth,” Clarke begs.

Lexa is only too happy to oblige. She trails another path down Clarke’s body, similar to before but with more purpose now. Without the scrap of lace covering Clarke’s centre, her destination is in sight, and Lexa wastes very little time getting there, only stopping briefly over Clarke’s breasts and her navel and that sensitive spot just above Clarke’s left hipbone that Lexa discovered during her earlier exploration, in attempts to drive Clarke wild.

Everything about this situation is incredibly surreal, but Lexa decides the moment that trumps it all is the one when she slides her tongue through Clarke’s wetness for the first time. She can’t believe she’s here in Clarke’s hotel room, let alone going down on the woman she admires, but the heady taste of Clarke’s arousal on her tongue is eerily familiar, yet also different to anything she’s ever tasted before.

Instinct kicks in. No longer is this Lexa and her celebrity crush, this is Lexa and a girl who wants her, a girl who _needs_ her, if the way that Clarke’s hips cant up in to Lexa’s mouth is anything to go by. Clarke sends a hand down and tangles it into the hair on the back of Lexa’s head, keeping Lexa’s mouth against her while she bucks her hips and gyrates against Lexa’s mouth.

It’s really fucking hot, is the first thing that crosses Lexa’s mind. And there is no second thing, because Lexa loses herself in it all. Clarke’s enthusiasm is smearing her arousal all over Lexa’s chin but Lexa fucking loves it, loves the way that Clarke just can’t seem to get enough of Lexa’s mouth.

“Yes, baby,” Clarke moans out encouragements between whimpers. “Yes!”

Lexa has never been called baby before, but she decides that she likes it coming from Clarke’s lips. She doubles her efforts in response, wrapping her lips around Clarke’s aching clit and lashing her tongue against it. Clarke bucks her hips again when Lexa does that, lets out a few more murmured encouragements and a gasped ‘ _fuck_ ’, and Lexa hums against Clarke’s centre in approval.

Lexa realises that Clarke is going to cum really fucking soon if she keeps this up, and while the thought is an encouraging one, she isn’t quite ready to be done yet. She slows down the ministrations of her tongue, moving away from Clarke’s sensitive clit to drag lazy paths up and down Clarke’s folds, while bringing up a hand to spread Clarke open for her.

“Do you want…?” Lexa asks, lifting her mouth from Clarke’s centre as she dips the tip of an exploratory finger into Clarke’s opening.

“God, yes,” groans Clarke, lifting her hips off the bed in an attempt to get Lexa’s mouth back on her. “Do what you want, Lexa. Fuck me. I need … yeah, just like that.”

Lexa goes straight in with two fingers, knowing that Clarke is more than ready for both, and she lets out another hum of delight at the sensation of Clarke clenching deliciously around her digits. She curls her fingers against Clarke’s front wall, seeking out the erogenous area that she knows will drive Clarke crazy, and Lexa knows she’s successful when Clarke’s back arches off the bed and a husky groan erupts from Clarke’s throat.

“Fuck. Lexa, just like that.”

Lexa speeds up her motions, thrusting two fingers in and out, and leans down against to put her mouth against Clarke. There’s no pretence any more, no need for further delay. Lexa needs to see Clarke cum for her and she needs to see it _soon_. She swipes her tongue against Clarke’s folds once, twice, then dives right in, giving Clarke’s clit the unwavering attention of her lips and tongue while her fingers slowly work Clarke higher and higher.

“Shit, baby. I’m gonna…”

No amount of warning could prepare Lexa for Clarke’s orgasm. She knows it’s been building but it still takes her by surprise, from the way that Clarke’s hips lift off the bed, to the shout of pleasure that escapes her lips. Lexa uses her free hand and splays it over Clarke’s hips, keeping them anchored to the bed, while she uses the fingers of the other, still buried in velvety warmth, to coax yet more sounds from Clarke’s mouth.

Clarke’s body stutters through the climax, trembling beneath Lexa with unpredictable jerks, and even when Lexa thinks she’s drawn the last of Clarke’s pleasure from her, Clarke’s body still twitches once more, before she collapses onto the bed with a contented sigh.

Lexa withdraws her fingers and wipes them on her thigh, not minding the sticky mess they leave behind, then crawls up Clarke’s body.

“Did I do okay?” asks Lexa, because even though Clarke obviously just _came_ for her, she needs to know if it was good enough, needs to know if she’s done enough for Clarke to stick around long enough to return the favour.

Clarke’s hands pull Lexa’s head down for a kiss. There’s almost too much tongue, but when Lexa realises that Clarke is merely tasting herself on Lexa’s lips, Lexa decides that there can be no such thing as too much tongue, and she lets Clarke’s filthy kiss take control.

“You’re so cute,” Clarke mumbles against Lexa’s lips, her mouth turning up into a smile. “Way more than okay.”

In a sudden move that takes Lexa by surprise, Clarke flips them over and hovers above Lexa’s body with a predatory smile on her face. She lowers her mouth to Lexa’s neck, closing her teeth over Lexa’s pulse point and sucking what is going to turn into a dark mark into the pale skin there, before moving even lower.

“What was it you were saying earlier?” she asks, between kisses that draw a path over the swell of Lexa’s breath and down towards her navel. “I believe you used the words ‘feminist icon’. Why don’t you tell me a bit more about that while I eat you out?”

Lexa’s head falls back against the pillow and her hand finds the back of Clarke’s head. The moan that spills from her throat when Clarke’s lips close around her clit can probably be heard from the hotel lobby many floors below.

* * *

**_SIX MONTHS LATER_ **

Lexa hums a jaunty tune under her breath as she slots her key into the front door of her apartment. She smells like an airplane and she hasn’t eaten all day but none of that matters when Lexa is still riding the high of a weekend spent in her girlfriend’s bed.

She’s been dating Clarke for six months now, and it still feels a little bit like a dream that Lexa is praying she’ll never wake up from. That night in Clarke’s hotel room was one of the best of Lexa’s life, and once they were done exploring each other’s bodies over and over again, they stayed up talking into the early hours of the morning until they were both too tired to stay awake any longer.

As she pushes open the front door and drags her small suitcase inside the apartment, Lexa smiles to herself at the memory of that night and the morning that followed. If Clarke asking Lexa out for a drink was surreal, if Clarke taking Lexa back to her hotel room and fucking her until she couldn’t remember her own name was surreal, then nothing could have prepared Lexa for Clarke inviting her along to the second day of her photoshoot the following day, nor the way that Clarke took Lexa twice in her dressing room during her lunch break, nor the relationship that blossomed from there.

It’s been a really great six months.

“Anya?” Lexa calls out into the apartment, leaving her suitcase by the door and walking towards her roommate’s bedroom. “You in?”

“Yeah!” comes Anya’s reply.

Lexa pushes open the door to Anya’s room and finds her friend sitting up against the headboard of her bed, her laptop on her thighs, which she moves to the side when she sees Lexa standing in the doorway.

“So how was your weekend away?” asks Anya.

“It was good,” grins Lexa.

‘Good’ doesn’t even begin to cover her weekend spent with Clarke, but then none of the other words in the dictionary do either. Lexa doesn’t think she’s going to be able to stop grinning for days.

“Have you been on Instagram lately?” asks Anya.

“No, why?” frowns Lexa, fumbling for her phone in her jacket pocket and opening up the app.

“Take a look at your girlfriend’s latest post,” Anya tells her, her voice full of glee and eyes lit up with delight.

Lexa scrolls down her feed until she finds the photo in question, and reads the caption.

_There’s nothing quite like letting your girl take it off you at the end of a long shoot…_

Her eyes flit up to the picture, a photo of a pair of lacy underwear lying discarded on the floor, and heat rises to Lexa’s cheeks as she realises that Clarke must have taken the photo while Lexa wasn’t paying attention.

The thing is, she _recognises_ the underwear. In fact, Lexa remembers picking the set out at the mall specifically to wear on this trip to visit Clarke, and she remembers the nerves she felt while putting them on and wondering whether Clarke would like what she sees, and she remembers the satisfaction of Clarke popping open the clasp of the bra and drawing the lacy panties down Lexa’s long legs with only her teeth.

Lexa glances down to the comments on the photo, mostly made up of people trying to speculate who Clarke’s mystery girl might be, but her eyes fall onto the likes, which have already reached over twenty thousand.

“Goddammit,” groans Lexa, letting her head fall against Anya’s doorframe with a soft thud.

“What?”

“That’s not even a picture of Clarke’s underwear.”

Anya’s shriek of glee is a sound that isn’t going to leave Lexa in a long while.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on tumblr [@almostafantasia](http://almostafantasia.tumblr.com)


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